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CHAPTER 34
Guthrie took delight in fingerprinting Alex and shuffling him out to the car, where the young meth cooker would be driven to the county jail.
Henry kept close tabs on the entire process, but even he knew he could not do much. His son was going to jail. He might get a good plea deal, but the county’s chief prosecutor seemed a different man, his shoulders hunched, more lines on his face. A twinge of sympathy ran through Dean. He had been the son of a police officer, which had been challenging for both him, his brothers, and his father. Being the son of the chief prosecutor or being the chief prosecutor whose son is a drug dealer must have been difficult as well.
Pond opened the chief’s door and walked out. She looked up at her boss, grimly smiled, and spotted Dean. She gestured as if she were smoking a cigarette and nodded toward the exit. He nodded once and stood up.
She waited for him as he walked to the exit. The chief came out of the office, patted Henry on the shoulder, and told him to take the day, even the next.
Dean held the door open for Clara. She pulled out a Virginia Slim. He held the light for her and then lit his own.
“So you’re the chief’s son, the detective from the city?” She blew smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“Yeah, that’s me. Can’t say I know much about you.”
“Henry and Karen, his assistant, talk about you every once in a while. They think they’re discreet, but, well, they aren’t.”
“What do they say about me?”
“Hmmm. That you’re a drunk who washed out of the NYPD. Vet who saw real combat. Lucky you have a father who’s a chief of police to get you a job.”
Dean chuckled. “I didn’t realize they had such a high opinion of me.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “But it’s pretty much true.”
“All of it?”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d go so far as being a drunk, but let’s not split hairs.”
She crossed her left arm across her body, pinching her hand between her right elbow and abdomen and holding the cigarette in the air. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
He inhaled on his cigarette and studied her face.
“I was a couple of years behind you.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t recall.”
“I was in your brother’s class.”
“Nolan?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
He shook his head and held the cigarette low.
“You were the talk of the girls.”
“I was?”
She smiled. “Anyways, seems like you have a problem.”
“Huh?”
“Someone’s telling the Grim Devils what the police are up to.”
“Oh that. Yeah, that’s an issue.” Who knew about the lab and the surveillance? Eric, Guthrie, Reggie, Etheridge, and probably a couple of the others. The lab raid? Essentially the same people. And. And Sadie. He had mentioned finding it. Did she know about the surveillance too? Had he been too drunk to remember telling her?
“Hey there.” Pond snapped her fingers. “Back to earth.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Was thinking about that problem.”
She dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her toe. “I can see that. Looks like you have a suspect.”
He nodded and watched her walk to her car.
* * *
Dean, Etheridge, and Zach waited for Sam Darwish to arrive home. They waited down the street, away from his likely direction of return. Indeed, they heard first and then saw the Harley-Davidson and Sam driving toward them. He pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine. His long hair dropped to below his shoulders, but he was balding and his hair had a stringy, brittle appearance. He wore a red bandana like a sweat band. He had on the vest of the Grim Devils—their large Grim Reaper crushing skulls—jeans, and military-style black boots.
Sam had a good-sized rap sheet of drunk driving, assaults, and minor drug possession charges. He had spent a fair number of nights in the jail’s drunk tank and a few longer stints in the county jail. Born in 1940, he had been a track star for Zion in high school. After, he started working for Banks’s. He joined the Grim Devils in the mid-Sixties.
Dean told Etheridge to start the car and drive fast to Sam’s house, hoping to catch him off guard and minimize the danger. Etheridge punched the accelerator, and the car tore toward Sam, who looked up from his motorcycle. He lifted his aviators just as Etheridge slammed the breaks. Before the car had come to a complete stop at the end of Sam’s driveway, Dean and Zach were opening their doors and stepping out.
Sam started to run to his house, but he was a large man who long ago had lost his high school state finals sprinting form. Zach, the younger and faster officer, sprinted the few yards separating him from Sam and dove toward the fleeing man, driving his shoulder into his back.
Sam grunted, stumbled forward, and flailed his arms but kept upright and running to his house. Dean was coming fast on Sam as Zach was picking himself up, when Etheridge shouted, “Freeze. I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”
But Sam did not stop. Dean caught up with him and reached for his shoulders, but he twisted loose. Zach was beside Dean then and had his truncheon out, which he swiped across Sam’s back left leg.
The big man cried out again, but this time, he fell. Dean drove his knee between Sam’s shoulder blades, reaching for the big man’s right hand, grabbing just inside the thumb and twisting to pull the hand back and get him under his control. Etheridge ran past and stopped between Sam and his house, his pistol leveled at the biker.
Dean cuffed the right hand, and Sam gave up and relaxed. Dean cuffed the left hand and rolled Sam over onto his back. Grass and dirt covered his mouth and nose. A trickle of blood rolled down his upper lip.
“Afternoon, Sam. We got questions for you.”
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